Portions for Foxes
by Min Daae
Summary: Sort-of tag for The Last of the Time Lords. This victory is hollow.


His head was so empty.

It'd been a shock – an awful shock, to be sure, almost painful, when the Master awakened and the sense that had been so hollow roared back into life like a blast of white light after months, _years _in the dark. Suddenly there was another Time Lord in the universe, he was not alone, and it didn't even matter that it was _him. _

But then he'd stolen the TARDIS and run, leaving them very intentionally to die, but even still, all that ways away, there was the awareness, howling in his mind with the voice of Gallifrey burning, of another Time Lord walking the stars.

He could never not have followed.

It would have been easy to lose himself, to run after the Master heedless of consequence or safety or Earth's future, if it hadn't been for Jack and Martha. Martha especially kept him grounded, kept his mind on why this world mattered, why it mattered more than the fierce, sharp, constant reminder that he'd been wrong, he'd been so wrong.

And after all, they weren't going to kill the Master. He wouldn't allow it. There had to be another solution. They were the only two left; that mattered, didn't it? And even if it didn't matter to his once-friend, it mattered to him.

And then the year, that terrible year.

His head was so empty. All the noise was gone, and there was only the echoing silence of after the screams had died, and it was more hollow than nothingness, more profound than the pit. The room was swirling around him, and all he could pay attention to was the sound of his own heartbeat, the rhythm of four, the only set of two hearts still beating in the universe. He'd never felt more alone, never felt less human.

"Doctor?"

Martha, beautiful Martha, savior of the Earth Martha. She was kneeling beside him, touching his shoulder, like she understood. And he could feel Jack – Jack's wrongness, hovering a little ways away. The Doctor knew how much he had suffered, knew in excruciating detail how far he'd been pushed, and here he was. Still loyal. Still _obedient. _

He wanted them all gone, suddenly. "Martha," he said in a hollow voice. "Call UNIT. Jack has the number. Get your family out of here and back to Earth. And Lucy," he added, after a moment. "Take Lucy with you."

He should have known that Martha wouldn't listen. None of them ever listened, his companions. "Tish can call. Doctor, are you all right?"

The Doctor should have been able to let the answer to that roll right off of his tongue. _Always, _it should have been, _I'm always all right. _But he said nothing, easing the Master to the floor, looking down at his face. It looked…serene. Peaceful.

His head was starting to ache with the sudden silence. One voice wasn't much, but it was enough; enough to reawaken the feeling of rising from the floor of the TARDIS with the newfound quiet where the Time Lords had been, enough to remember the way the light had seared his eyes as Gallifrey burned and Gallifrey died.

"He's dead," Martha said quietly, and for a moment he was furious, because he knew that, he knew that better than she ever would, before he realized that she wasn't done. "That's it, isn't it? He was the only one left, other than you. I can't imagine…"

"No," he said, more bitterly than he meant, "You can't."

She pulled away, and he could almost see her expression take on a frosty edge. She'd aged, in the last year. Not – aged, gotten older, but aged, gotten harder, become a warrior. And she was angry with him. "Take care of your family," he said.

"Yes, sir," she snapped, and he heard her stalk away. He let his shoulders slump.

The Doctor had seen victory before. This wasn't victory. Victory was made of parties and celebration and edible ball bearings. This was just hollow and sour and empty.

It seemed like he'd had a lot of that lately.

"Doctor."

"Jack."

"Do you need any – help?" Jack paused, then added, "With him?"

He turned his head slowly and looked dully up at Jack. He wondered, suddenly, how he'd managed not to shoot. After everything the Doctor knew about what had been done to him – and that might well only be a fraction – his hatred should be limitless.

Perhaps he'd known how angry he, _his_ Doctor, would have been. How he might well never have forgiven Jack. Not like he could forgive Lucy Saxon; poor, deluded, wounded Lucy Saxon. Good Jack. Obedient Jack. Damned Jack who was making his skin crawl.

"Doctor? You're quiet. You're never quiet."

"I am now."

"So do you want…"

"No. I'll take care of him. He's still my responsibility. I should take him out before UNIT gets here." He heard Jack sigh.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the Doctor shook his head.

"Don't be. He was insane. And I can't imagine that you really mean it, not after what he put you through."

"Not for him," Jack said, "For you."

The Doctor turned his back and wondered how this must look to the others, to Martha's family. He hadn't meant for it to end like this. Of course, he hadn't meant for there to be a beginning at all, and certainly hadn't meant for there to be a year of torment to live through, a year that lived in their memories and no one else's. The list of things he hadn't _meant _could have been a mile long and longer. A mile long in this life alone, perhaps. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said, or started to say. Jack shook his head.

"I'm fine, all right? Fine."

"You should call your team. Make sure they're safe." Call Torchwood. He couldn't say that name, even if it was Jack. It stuck in his throat, reminded him of Daleks and Cybermen and Rose stuck forever on the other side of a blank wall.

"When things are cleaned up here," Jack said, and the Doctor heard what he didn't say, the worry, the concern.

There was a ringing in his ears, the sound of his mind trying to fill the sudden void. He shook his head and reached to gather the Master into his arms. He was glad Jack didn't ask what he was doing, glad no one asked. He could feel them all watching, sure, but they didn't ask. He thought he would have cracked if someone had.

"Doctor," Martha called, when she realized he was leaving. He didn't have the strength to turn and look at her, beautiful, clever Martha whom he had forged into a soldier with death in her eyes.

"I'll be back," he said, briefly, and let the door close behind him.

He found a Vortex Manipulator he used to hop to the surface, on a quiet, lonely Welsh hillside. He built the pyre alone and burned the body alone.

There was so much emptiness, everywhere, in him and in his head and in his heart, and he realized that he'd forgotten how it felt to be really alone, and the reason he knew he'd forgotten was because now he was remembering all over again and oh, it hurt, it hurt.

"Yes," he said, softly to the flames, "You win."


End file.
